Thursday, 24 January 2013

A Visit to the Doctor

Yesterday afternoon I had an
appointment to see the doctor. I say ‘the doctor,’ because it is almost
impossible to book an appointment with the same practitioner for each visit.

This was an appointment insisted
upon by my local medical practice, to discuss the results of an enforced
blood-test to determine whether, on balance, my regular blood-pressure
medication was doing me more harm than good.

Upon arrival I had to stand in a
long queue to book-in with the practice receptionist, who was so deeply engrossed
in a telephone conversation she was completely oblivious to the growing number
of elderly patients waiting at her window to register their attendance.

I asked the rather short and
portly woman in front of me, how long she’d been waiting, but she said she
couldn’t be certain, because due to a chronic urinary-tract infection she’d
been forced to leave the queue several times to visit the toilet, and had
therefore, relinquished her place on at least three occasions to others with
more robust bladders.

Despite this being too much
information, I was gallant enough to promise that, if she felt compelled to
visit the toilet again I’d save her place in the queue. She seemed genuinely grateful
at this uncharacteristic act of consideration of her problem.

By the time the receptionist had
concluded her telephone conversation and attended to all those in front of me,
I was fifteen minutes late for my allotted appointment. When I pointed this out
to her, and suggested that it may be a good idea to employ an additional person
to answer, or make telephone calls, she responded with the information that it
didn’t matter, because Dr Duffy was running thirty minutes late, and there were
still four patients ahead of me.

Resigned to a further
interminable wait, I climbed the two flights of stairs to the waiting area,
there to be greeted by the sight of a room full of sick people, who seemed in
varying states of irreversible decline.

I took the only free, intensely
uncomfortable chair next to a care-worn mother, whose violent hacking cough and
shivering frame, did not auger well for my future prospects of avoiding
influenza this winter. Upon her lap a
revolting, snotty nosed three-year-old boy, who was obviously suffering from ‘Terminal
Tantrum Syndrome’ squirmed and complained unceasingly, despite several loud warnings
from his mother of an imminent smack, which of course, never materialised.

Rising to select a magazine to
browse through from the few remaining dog-eared out-of-date publications scattered
on a small badly stained coffee-table I was disappointed to see that, the only
four left were: Men’s Health: February
2004: How to Cope with Your Hysterectomy: indeterminate date, as cover was
ripped: Summer Brides June 1998 and Women’s Weekly Nov 2005. More in despair
than hope, I selected ‘Summer Brides’ and settled down to enjoy the photos of
skinny models in ridiculous frocks and advertisements for exotic underwear to
make the wedding night a little more enticing than simply sleeping with one’s
wife.

Slowly, as various doctors
emerged from their consulting rooms to summon their next patient the number of the
infirm and clearly dying began to diminish. ‘Patient’ is certainly what most of
them had had to be. At least the
dwindling numbers gave me the opportunity to move away from the germ-infested
mother and her whining infant.

When, fifty-seven minutes after
my appointed time, Dr Duffy finally emerged to call my name, I was, needless to
say, wound up like the proverbial watch-spring.

Upon entering her consulting room
she apologised for the long wait, but offered no explanation as to its cause. I
told her that it didn’t matter, as I’d been so intrigued and impressed by a
photograph of a wedding gown in Summer Brides June 1998, that I was seriously
considering getting a divorce, booking myself in to a private transgender
clinic and undergoing a sex change operation, so I could remarry as an
attractive women in stunningly beautiful white dress,

She smiled, that kind of sickly, insincere, pitying smile, which one often receives from those who believethemselves to be superior.

Anyway, you may be pleased to
know that Dr Duffy informed me that my blood-test results were all normal, but
my blood-pressure, was slightly raised.

James Rainsford: January 2013

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About Me

One
time merchant seaman, welder, salesman, teacher, college lecturer, company
director, mushroom-farmer, philosopher and inveterate reprobate.

Now
striving (not too hard) to become a genuine 'Renaissance Man,' pursuing the
dubious consolation of writing, photography, poetry and playing the blues, all
activities which are only tolerable, because they are punctuated by afternoon
naps, alcoholic euphoria, and profound idleness.

Passionate
believer in the values of 'The Enlightenment.' Implacable opponent of multiculturalism
and political correctness in all their idiotic manifestations. Hater of moral
and cultural relativism. Lover of freedom of speech and committed enemy of all
censorship and faith based tyranny.

Sympathetic
to the Victor Meldrew view of the Universe. (Clear to viewers of : ‘One Foot in
the Grave.’ BBC TV)